


Stalk (Forge #1)

by Dusk Peterson (duskpeterson), duskpeterson



Series: The Eternal Dungeon [40]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1880s, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Original, Cooking, Ethical Issues, Fire Escapes, Gen, Grief, Historical slash, Housework, Labor Unions, M/M, Mentally Ill Character(s), Multi, Newspapers, Original Fiction, Original Slash, Queer Character(s), Romance, Self-Discipline, Servants, Slash, Spies, abuse issues, balladeers, criminals, domestic life, don't need to read other stories in the series, ethnic character(s), gen - Freeform, original gen, prisons (flashbacks), spirituality, working-class struggles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-22 12:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30038400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/Dusk%20Peterson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson/pseuds/duskpeterson
Summary: "His goal this afternoon must be what it had been since he moved to this district: to escape anyone's notice."You can hide from the world, but you can't hide from yourself.Toler has come to the notorious Alleyway District in order to start a new life: alone, hidden away in a commoners' tenement.But finding refuge does not prove to be easy. A determinedly friendly neighbor, a pestering servant, and a visitor from the past all seem determined to bring back memories best forgotten.And then there is an interference that Toler is unaware of: a hidden figure who watches Toler, making plans. . . .Boilerplate warning for all my stories + my rating system.
Relationships: Original Female Character & Original Male Character, Original Male Character & Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Series: The Eternal Dungeon [40]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/15843
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2
Collections: A Whisper to the  Dark Side, Chains: The Powerfic Archive, Historical Fic, Queer Characters Collection, Stove Stories





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _**Author's note:** This is the first story in _Forge _, the sixth volume in the Eternal Dungeon series. You don't need to read the other stories in the series to understand this one._

_The year 375, the fourth month. (The year 1886 Fallow by the Old Calendar.)_

Toler Forge walked down Main Street in the Alleyway district of the capital of Yclau, trying to decide whether what he was experiencing was spring.

The street around him offered few visual clues to help him. No trees grew on the narrow planks that served as sidewalks for the cautious; no flowers grew from the dirt road where most people did their walking, blithely ignoring the curses of merchant-men trying to drive their carts to the ramshackle stores on either side of the street. Only an occasional weed poked its head up, and the weeds had been there all through the long, hard winter.

Toler thought this was probably spring. The air was familiar: too cool to permit those who could afford such luxuries to shed their overcoats, but warm enough that the communal fires which had burned on every street corner for the past three months had been doused by the ragged-clothed boys and girls who built them.

Or perhaps the city's patrol soldiers had simply made another of their periodic sweeps through the Alleyway district, sternly eliminating any object that might bring brief comfort to the commoners living in this district.

Toler found himself frowning at the thought, and then he forced himself to relax. That was no longer his business, he reminded himself; he had put all that away when he donned his present identity. His goal this afternoon must be what it had been since he moved to this district: to escape anyone's notice.

He slowed and paused to look at his reflection in the window of a butcher's shop. There was nothing about himself, he thought, that might reveal him to the casual passerby. All he saw in the window was a grey-haired man wearing a commoners' suit, his arms full of books. _New Year Festivals in the Queendom of Yclau_ , read the spine of the only book that he had turned outward. He supposed that sounded suitably harmless. He had not known he was carrying that book; he had picked volumes randomly off the shelves at the Commoners' Library, seeking to hide the sole book he had come there to borrow.

He realized suddenly that he was acting like a character in a ballad, examining himself in a reflection so as to give the balladeer the opportunity to describe his looks. His face, which until that moment had been cool if not downright stern, lightened suddenly as the corners of his mouth twisted into a smile. His love-mate would laugh if he were watching, he thought to himself. A character in a ballad was the last thing Toler wanted to be.

He turned back to his walk, stepping nimbly off the curb so as to avoid crashing into a stout old woman who was walking toward Darktown, with her head down. Others on the street were also headed in the direction Toler took. That was where most of their homes were located, and this was the hour when many of them were released from their manufactory work. Toler watched two young boys in manufactory clothes walk by, hand in hand, eliciting smiles from some of their elders who passed them. One of the boys, ignoring the crowd around them, leaned over and kissed his love-mate on the lips.

Toler turned his gaze away swiftly. He was passing the pawnbrokers now; in front of their offices was a long line of men and women, for this was the first day of the month, when rents were due. The men and women looked somewhat more cheerful than they had been when they stood in front of these shops during the icy winds of winter. Toler had spent most of that winter shivering beside a stove that burned low, because the coal that was supplied with the rooms he rented was often late in arriving and sometimes never came. He had wanted more than once to simply go out and buy his own supply of coal, but he dared not draw attention to himself that way. His neighbors already wondered how he was able to afford his rooms, when he never went out to work.

He ought to find himself a job, he thought, and then dismissed the idea at once. Jobs were hard to come by in the Alleyway district; he would be taking bread from the mouths of men who worked to support their families. Besides, jobs would bring him into contact with other people, and there would be questions – questions he might not be able to answer.

He had reached the bridge over the river. Behind him lay the manufactories and railroad tracks; ahead, incongruously, Main Street led to a hill that was crowned by the Queen's palace. He managed to keep himself from looking in that direction, instead stepping back onto the curb where a boy with patched trousers and no jacket was holding up a newspaper from the stack at his feet.

"Read! Read!" the boy cried in a high, unbroken voice. "More trouble for Vovim's King! Yclau's Queen pardons life prisoners! New High Seeker gives first interview to the press!"

Toler stopped abruptly, nearly causing a young woman holding a baby to knock into him. Mumbling an apology, he made his way over to the boy, who promptly handed him a newspaper. It was one of the independent presses, he saw, though from the way the headlines were worded, he gathered that it received most of its information straight from the mouths of the Queen's ministers.

His eyes scanned the front page of the newspaper. He rapidly passing over news that the High Seeker had made yet another public appearance, announcing that Seekers would henceforth be permitted to make visits to their families, provided that they wore civilian clothes during their time away from the Eternal Dungeon. No mention was made by the High Seeker of how the general populace might feel at having the royal dungeon's infamous prisoner-breakers sidling amongst them, undetectable.

None of this was Toler's business. Finally, Toler found the article he wanted. The Queen, in gracious consideration of the prisoners' penniless families, had agreed to release four of the five men who had been found guilty of conspiring to commit the horrendous kidnapping, rape, torture, and murder of a young woman that had so shocked the queendom nine years before. The fifth man, the actual murderer, remained imprisoned for life. The city soldiers, when interviewed for their thoughts, expressed concern that the Queen's action would provide added trouble in a city already suffering under the disruptive activities of the Commoners' Guild. . . .

He became aware that the newsboy was standing at his elbow, looking expectantly up at him. Toler fished into a pocket and handed the boy a coin. "Thank you."

The boy looked at the coin, and then offered it back. "Don't you have nothing smaller, mister? I don't carry that much change."

"Keep the change," he murmured; he was busy reading the article again. The Queen, the newspaper reported, had gone so far in her mercy as to pardon the twelve other conspirators who had not been captured during the week of the murder, and who were assumed to have gone into hiding. The leader of the Commoners' Guild, speaking to the press, demanded stronger assurances from the Crown that no further arrests would be made . . .

He felt relief pour into him. He had suspected that this would happen; there had been signs in the newspapers for months that the Queen was about to reverse her magistrate's judgment from ten years before. Still, it seemed an unlikely end to the story. And perhaps, he reflected grimly to himself, it was not the end of the story. Perhaps the Queen was only using this apparent pardon as a method by which to drive the remaining men out of hiding . . .

He became aware once more that the boy was watching him; this time the boy's eyes were narrowed in a hostile manner. He felt his heart jump, wondering how he had revealed himself. Then he saw that the boy's hand was white-knuckled around the coin, and he cursed himself within. He had wounded the boy's pride with his largesse. He wished his love-mate were here. Toler was too prone to make mistakes like this without his love-mate at his side.

He said quickly, "An elderly lord gave that to me, because I stopped to help him climb into his carriage when his driver was otherwise occupied. I tried to refuse the coin, but the lord wouldn't listen to me. I decided to get rid of the money, first chance I had."

The boy's face smoothed out, as though he had heard a particularly well-sung ballad. Since Toler had stolen the tale from a ballad, this was hardly surprising. The boy placed the coin in his pocket carefully, saying, "I know where to put the coin to good use, mister. Don't you worry."

Toler hesitated, wondering whether he had just supplied the boy with enough money to buy a week's worth of silver pot-herb. Mistaking the nature of his hesitation, the boy said approvingly, "It's a lot of money. Takes guts to give up that much."

Toler muttered something unintelligible, his mind wandering away to the fact that this conversation was not safe. He had been standing here for too long; he might draw attention to his presence.

He looked around quickly. All that he could see was the crowd that had been passing before: laborers, scantly dressed children, and weary housewives. He searched further and found an alleyway across the street, filled with laundry hanging from the railings of the fire escapes, and under that, a group of small boys pricking each other with knives. From the looks of it, they were playing Torturer and Prisoner, and from the sound of their conversation, they weren't sure how to torture.

Toler turned his attention back to the boy, who was saying, "I could give you something extra instead of change, mister."

"Oh?" said Toler, curious as to whether he was about to be offered silver pot-herb or bootleg rum or simply a particularly juicy bit of gossip. The boy looked about, as Toler had a moment before, and then beckoned to Toler, who obediently bent forward.

"A ballad," the boy whispered.

Toler's eyebrows shot up. The boy appeared nervous, as well he might. Toler guessed that the newsboy was not offering to sing him a tale of love lost in tragic deaths.

He hesitated. The boy, treating this as assent, scooped up his papers and hurried down the street a short way before disappearing into an alley. Toler considered leaving the boy to sing to the alley cats, but he supposed that would only make the boy afraid that Toler had gone to fetch the soldiers. Sighing, Toler made his way to the alley.

o—o—o

On a fire escape in the alleyway across the street, kneeling behind the laundry that shielded him from view, the observer broke his gaze away from the grey-haired man long enough to light the cigarette in his mouth. The cigarette did not contain silver pot-herb; the observer never took drugs when he was on the hunt.

He breathed smoke in slowly as he dropped the match and returned his gaze to the sight through the slight gap in the laundry. It was just like Forge, he thought with dark amusement, to spend an entire winter trying to escape from danger and then to walk into an alley in order to humor a boy's desire to sing. The hunter could have reached Forge in that alley with ease. But he preferred not to. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to set his trap, and Forge was about to come within reach of it.

The hunter kept his eye fixed on Forge as the latter moved further into the shadows of the alley, away from sight and sound of the street. He could see Forge clearly; he had always possessed good vision in the dark. It had proved handy in his profession. His mind, as always, was running rapidly through a dozen ways to capture, to disarm, to bind. It all came too pat to him. This man, he knew, was not like the others he had stripped of defenses; this man was far more dangerous. One small error by the hunter could result in disaster, and disaster could lead to death.

Forge's back was to him now. The hunter stood up, dropped the cigarette to the metal floor of the highest tier of the fire escape, and ground the cigarette under his boot methodically. It was time he was away, the hunter thought. He had work to do.

o—o—o

"The Ballad of the Life Prisoners," the newsboy announced.

Toler nodded in acknowledgment. He was sitting on a closed dustbin now so that he could easily see, with periodic turns of the head, both ends of the alley. If a soldier came down one end, he could delay the soldier long enough to give the boy time to run for freedom. Toler had no doubt of his own ability to escape arrest. He had far too much experience at that.

Rather than show irritation that Toler's gaze kept wandering away from him, the boy appeared to regard this as the needed proof that his dangerous ballad was being delivered to someone who deserved the contents. Standing straight and proud against the crumbling bricks, the newsboy began to sing.

The ballad, like so many other ballads Toler had heard over the years, began with something close to pure fancy. Five men, accused of a crime they had not committed, were arrested and sent to the horrors of the Eternal Dungeon. There they were systematically sliced to pieces by the hooded Seekers, reassembled, fried at length, with choice pieces of themselves making their way onto the Seekers' dinner table, and finally tickled for a week in an effort to make them falsely confess to the crime. Upheld by their determination not to betray their proud heritage as commoners, the men refused to confess. Gradually, the Seekers' will was weakened; the torturers began to plead, then to sob. By the end of the first part of the tale, the Seekers were making oaths to join the Commoners' Guild, disregarding the fact that, being highborn, none of them could become guild members.

The second part of the ballad had less fancy and more substance to it; the ballad-maker had evidently either attended the trial or read accounts of it in the newspapers. The five men, tried together, were defended by none other than the Mad High Seeker, who was now secretly bearing copies of the guild leader's ballads next to his heart. The High Seeker made a strong plea for the lives of the innocent guild leader and his followers. The words of this plea were so starkly unemotional that they stood out clearly as a mere transcript of the actual speech. The boy sang through this quickly, his eye on Toler; clearly, he was afraid of losing his audience. Toler did not move; he was enjoying hearing the cool, collected words of the High Seeker sung by a boy with such fervor.

The remainder of the account of the trial was a mixture of fact and fancy. The magistrate's heart melted at the High Seeker's impassioned plea. At the same time, though, the evil councillors of the Queen pricked the magistrate's back with their daggers. Caught between his conscience and his fear of the councillors, the magistrate appeased the powerful, ordering the five men to be sentenced to prison for life. They were removed from the judging room together, the guild leader giving a brief, reassuring smile to a young Seeker standing near the door, who was crying.

Toler stirred. Evidently regarding this as a sign of boredom, the boy hurried into the next exciting portion of the narrative, the commoners' time in prison. Whether any of the beatings, starvations, humiliations, and body-breaking work that the ballad claimed occurred to the prisoners there had actually taken place, Toler could not say: he had never been in a life prison, and no prisoner there had ever been permitted to communicate to the outside world what conditions were like inside. A hint that this might have changed in recent months came from a passage in the ballad where a guard, overwhelmed by the beauty of the guild leader's latest poems, had agreed to smuggle them out of the prison. The poems were supposed to be on topics of love and war, but hidden within each poem was a message to the guild leader's followers, urging them to remain strong and to continue the fight without him.

The final portion of the ballad, as far as Toler could tell from the newspaper accounts he had read, was little more than a simple recital of the facts. The Commoners' Guild, unable to find anyone who would help them pay the high fees necessary to start a suit for the life prisoners' release, resorted to publishing the guild leader's poems. The book was an immediate hit with the public, partly because many of the poems had no mention of politics in them. The ones that did, such as the Ballad of the Mad High Seeker, were sympathetic in depicting the lives of the highborn whose activities oppressed the commoners. This sympathetic rendering allowed the guild leader to obtain a highborn audience to whom he could address his brief, biting passages about the higher classes' neglect of the commoners' welfare.

The ballad which Forge was listening to inserted a few more standard ballad deaths, arranging for the councillors to murder the guild leader's family and burn some small children who dared to speak against the councillors' injustice. The ballad ended with the release of the life prisoners. However, in a sad touch that the guild leader himself would have approved of, the final lines of the ballad spoke of the twelve other innocent commoners, waiting to see whether it would be safe for them to emerge from hiding.

"That was well rendered," said Toler when the newsboy was finished. The boy beamed.

"You don't want to read that," he said scornfully, waving his hand at the papers he was selling. "You won't find any truth there. The Commoners' Guild knows the truth. You need to listen to our ballads to hear the real news."

"Is that one of Mr. Bainbridge's ballads?" Toler asked politely, though he already knew the answer.

The boy shook his head. "It's my ballad. Mr. Bainbridge only just came out yesterday morning. He hasn't had time to sing any ballads. But he will," the boy promised. "He'll tell what abuses take place in the life prisons."

"I'll look forward to hearing that," Toler replied as he stood up, dusting off the bottom of his trousers. He was indeed looking forward to the guild leader's new ballads; it would be interesting to hear what soft words Yeslin Bainbridge used to hide his hard message. A love affair between a guard and a prisoner, perhaps? Or an ode to moonlight falling in patterns through the bars of a cell? Or perhaps Mr. Bainbridge's most popular character, the Mad High Seeker, would travel to the life prison to examine conditions there.

He tipped the boy again, wording it as a donation to the commoners' cause, and escorted the boy safely back to his corner.


	2. Chapter 2

Toler lived on the hill leading up to Darktown, which was the part of the queendom's capital that most people thought of when you said "Alleyway district." Darktown, it was said, was where you dared not wander after dark unless you wanted your throat slit and your purse stolen.

In actual fact, the Alleyway district was much larger than Darktown. It embraced the original bounds of Luray. Since that time, the village had become the capital of the Queendom of Yclau, expanding south and north to provide housing for the noble personages who flocked to Luray in order to be near the Queen. Luray was no longer the rustic village it had once been; it was now a major city in the Midcoast nations of the Northern Continent.

But Luray's original, untitled elite families continued to live within the Alleyway district, too stubborn to leave or to acknowledge that they were now outnumbered ten to one by commoners in this part of the capital. Walking along Main Street, Toler passed the hill topped by the columned mansion that had once been the dwelling place of Master Borst. Master Borst's old-fashioned use of the title said it all; he had ruled his many servants as though slavery had not been abolished centuries ago. He had eventually died of apoplexy when one of his servants demanded a raise in pay.

Surrounding the mansion estate, to the south and west, were lands belonging to Addison Broaddus, the most powerful of the remaining elite men within the Alleyway district. He not only served as chief magistrate within the district's courthouse; he also owned the district's only newspaper, _The Luray Review_. Somehow, amidst all his duties, he managed to find time to pen fiery editorials – presumably aimed at the district's commoners – on the importance of obedience to the law.

The southern property was a farm-field, but the western property had a different purpose. Toler paused, just short of the crook in the road where Darktown began. Crammed together, with nothing but a narrow alley between them to provide light for some of the dwellings, were the two rows of tenement buildings owned by Addison Broaddus. Many miners lived in the tenements – employees of Mr. Broaddus's good friend Arber Randles, who owned most of the mines in the nearby mountains. The miners who lived here must well know that, if they slackened even slightly in their unending, backbreaking work in the mines, Mr. Randles would have a quiet word with his good friend, and the miners would lose, not only their jobs, but their dwellings as well.

Toler wondered with amusement what Mr. Broaddus and Mr. Randles would think if they knew that the latest tenant had no job at all.

Slipping his hand in his pocket for his key – Nearby Darktown's reputation was exaggerated, but it still wasn't a good idea to linger in front of one's doorstep alone – Toler made his way onto the dirt path that ran along the row of tenement buildings that faced toward Darktown. Children raced past him, swooping around him as though they were bats. Many of them had darker skin than was usually found in the Queendom of Yclau. This close to the border with the Kingdom of Vovim, the capital had attracted a healthy population of immigrants fleeing from their war-torn native kingdom. Toler suspected that part of the reason for the appellation Darktown was the darker nature of the residents' skin, although nobody had ever said that to him.

Possibly because his own skin was olive brown. Toler paused as some boys, playing tag, barged past him, joggling him as they did so. One of them, more polite than the rest, shouted an apology in the Common Speech of the Kingdom of Vovim.

"Not at all," Toler replied automatically in the same tongue, and then looked around hastily to see whether anyone had overheard him. All that he saw was a group of young girls playing kitten's cradle with pieces of yarn on their fingers. Beyond them, apparently absorbed in his reading of a newspaper, a plump, middle-aged man sat on the stoop of the first of the tenement buildings. He wore a mid-class suit, and he was apparently oblivious to Darktown's reputation, for sitting by his side was an expensive camera.

Toler examined with care the man's sitting position and then cursed inwardly. There was no hope for it. He would have to talk to Broaddus.

Broaddus did not look up till Toler was standing in front of him. Then he raised his head and smiled. "Finally a customer of ours, are you?" he said in a cheerful voice.

Toler had forgotten about the newspaper under his arm. He tossed his copy of _The Luray Review_ onto the step, next to Broaddus's camera, saying, "Your newsboys are most vigorous in their sales techniques."

Broaddus chuckled. "I'll pass on the compliment to my brother. I suspect he trains them all personally. Where he finds the time and energy, I don't know."

Broaddus had not moved, although he must have realized he was blocking Toler's entrance to his own home. Sighing within, Toler replied, "He has no family obligations." He could hear, coming from the window beside him, a cacophony of childish shouting.

This time it was Broaddus who sighed. "Ever since their mother took that job at the tannery, it's been pure chaos at home. I asked my brother for a raise in pay, so that Gillian could stay home. Seven children, I told him – seven!"

"And your brother's reply?" said Toler, amused again. Dearborn Broaddus's relations with his elder brother were exceedingly complex. Disowned by his parents at the time that he chose to marry beneath himself, the younger Broaddus had survived only through his brother's charitable suggestion that he should become the queendom's first newspaper photographer – working, of course, for Addison Broaddus. Likewise, Dearborn Broaddus lived without rent in this tenement building on his brother's sufferance. But the elder brother, lecturing Dearborn Broaddus on the importance of hard work and obedience to one's elders, refused to give Dearborn Broaddus enough pay to pull him out of poverty.

"He droned on about the importance of allowing women to make their own way in the world." Broaddus wrinkled his nose, as though he were passing the bad smells of the tannery. "He has an obsession with women's rights. Started that female seminary, you know, so that gently born women could have an education in this capital. I tried to explain to him what work conditions are like in the tannery, but he wouldn't listen."

"Maybe you should take photographs for your brother, within the tannery," Toler suggested. He was beginning to grow tired, waiting for Broaddus to run out of gossip to impart, but Toler was too well-trained in manners to brusquely end the conversation.

Besides, he owed a debt to Broaddus.

Toler had rented the first decent tenement he could find in the Alleyway district, paying a year's rent without even examining the contract he had signed. Then he had discovered, to his dismay, that the tenement had no furniture except a rather ugly desk.

He had never before lived in an unfurnished dwelling. Always his dwellings had been furnished: by his family, by his employers, by his captors. He had entirely forgotten that ordinary men must labor to raise money for their home's furnishings.

Witnessing Toler's dismay on that first day, Dearborn Broaddus had taken matters in hand, introducing him to the merchants in town and driving hard bargains with them to ensure that Toler received a fair price. Nor had Broaddus done more than raise an eyebrow when Toler paid for the furniture from a well-stuffed wallet. Broaddus's willingness to honor and protect Toler's privacy was the reason that Toler, despite everything, valued him as a neighbor.

Now Broaddus snorted. "As though he would be interested in such photographs. He calls his newspaper 'an independent press,' but it contains nothing except what's in the Queen's newspapers. . . . He was asking me about you, by the way."

Toler felt his heart jerk. His voice remained cool as he replied, "What did you tell him?"

"That you were hard-working, industrious, obedient to the law . . . Whatever else he wanted to hear. You're none of his business." Broaddus picked up the newspaper that Toler had tossed down and offered it back to him. "Have you finished reading this? I gather that matters are going badly in your country."

Broaddus had identified Toler, early on, as a native-born Vovimian. With another glance around to ensure that only children stood nearby, Toler took the newspaper back and glanced again at the front page. The King, he saw, was getting the worse of the current, decade-long war over whether his kingdom's prisons should be reformed. "Maybe the King will decide to let a few of us out of prison," Toler said.

Broaddus chuckled, as he always did when Toler made such remarks. Toler spoke with the accent of the Yclau elite. Broaddus had lightly hinted he knew that Toler was a Vovimian lord in exile, trying to remain inconspicuous in his new, reduced circumstances. In his amiable manner, Broaddus had entered into conspiracy with Toler to ensure that his secret was kept.

"There's some hope for the lords who are fighting the King," Broaddus agreed, taking back the newspaper that Toler handed him. "Perhaps you'll be able to return home soon, hmm?"

"Life here is pleasant enough," Toler replied, which elicited a snort from Broaddus. Toler added, "I am retired from work."

Broaddus gave a reluctant nod. "I suppose there are worse ways to spend one's days than in retirement. Mind you, I could never bear to retire from this." He gestured toward his camera. "It was my hobby before it became my work."

So Toler had heard, far too many times. He glanced at a group of boys playing hopscotch near a group of girls singing weaving songs they'd learned from their mothers. This wasn't quite Darktown; the young children here went to commoners' schools rather than work their days in manufactories, as the Darktown children did. "Aspiring mid-class" was how Toler would characterize Addison Broaddus's tenants. He had a moment of pity for Dearborn Broaddus, who had fallen so abruptly from his elite life, for the sake of the woman he loved. The curt demand that Toler had been about to make – that this conversation come to an end – died on Toler's tongue.

Broaddus rose to his feet. "But I'm keeping you from your well-earned rest. You must come and have dinner with me and Gillian some time."

"I shall check my datebook." He had been promising that since his arrival. Having to converse with Broaddus was dangerous enough; Toler had no desire to increase the danger by getting to know Broaddus's wife. "May the Fates be with your photographing."

"May the Fates be with you as well," Broaddus replied as he reseated himself, Toler having passed over the threshold to the tenement building. "When you're finished with the char, I don't suppose you could send her downstairs for a bit, could you? Our home is a mess, what with Gillian working all hours."

Toler froze.

After a moment, he said, "Char?"

He had a tendency to grow very cold in tone when something unexpected happened. Reading his tone, Broaddus twisted around to look back at him. "Didn't you hire her? She came knocking at my door, asking which tenement was yours."

"No. Did she say I hired her?"

"She didn't say a bloody word beyond, 'Toler Forge?' I sent her upstairs. I'm sorry; I thought you'd grown tired of bacheloring it without assistance."

"What did she look like?" Adrenaline was surging through him now. He was straining to hear any noise from above that might indicate that ordinary housework was taking place. He could hear nothing.

"Just like your average charwoman." Broaddus shrugged. "Beastly fat, greasy gray hair – she tries to cover that with a bonnet – light skin with a touch of brown to it, coarse dress, apron, worn shoes, hands that have done manual labor for many a year."

At times like this, Broaddus's visual talents could be of use. "She looked the part, then."

"Oh, yes," Broaddus assured him. "She was no house-thief; I'd stake my earnings on that. She seemed fed up, as though she'd been working hard all day. . . . Maybe my brother sent her round. He likes to offer help to working women."

"Perhaps." It was time that Toler was away; goodness only knew what mischief the char – or whatever she was – might be creating in his tenement. "She had a key to my tenement?"

Broaddus shrugged. "I didn't think to ask. She went upstairs half an hour ago – didn't come back down – so I assume she's still up there. Unless she decided to clean the Stevensons first."

The Stevensons were young brothers who lived together in the tenement opposite Toler's. Toler had scarcely seen them since his arrival; they were both miners who worked long hours. "I'll send her down to you if I can," Toler said, his mind still on what poison lay upstairs. "Most likely, this is all a mistake." It was most assuredly a mistake, but whether it was the char's or Toler's he didn't yet know.

Satisfied, Broaddus returned to his reading. Toler took a step toward the stairs, then another. He began to make his way upstairs slowly, avoiding the steps that creaked. The intruder mustn't know he was coming—

It was then that the charwoman screamed.

o—o—o

It was a high, thin scream – more a squeak than a scream. But it continued, ragged and long, accompanied by heavy, rhythmic thuds.

It was the thuds, as much as the scream, that sent Toler racing up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. He reached the second level, where more miners lived, passing their doors without breaking stride.

It was when he reached his own door, on the third level, that the screams and thuds abruptly broke off.

He held his breath, listening. He could hear no sound from inside. His key was already in the lock; taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

A woman stood in his kitchen. She could not be described as statuesque; she was nearly as fat as she was tall, and her hands were plump as well. He thought her face might be plump, but he could scarcely see it; her unkempt hair hid her eyes, her cheeks were bright with gaudy rouge, and her mouth was hidden by the apron hem she had flung over it. She was standing on a chair, staring wide-eyed at what lay on the floor.

The rat was dead. Quite dead and quite bloody. The dustpan next to it gave evidence of how it had suffered death.

Clearly, the char was a woman to be reckoned with. Toler cleared his throat. "Mistress—" He went blank for a moment; he had forgotten to ask Broaddus the charwoman's name. Well, in lack of a name, titles would do. "Mistress Char, I am Toler Forge; I live here. May I be of assistance?"

The char growled something under her breath. Despite her brave defense of the sanctity of the kitchen, she was huddled in upon herself. She indicated the rat with a nudge from her boot.

Toler quickly set down his library books on the kitchen table and used the dustpan and broom to scoop up the unfortunate rat. Without a word, he left the tenement and travelled down to the bottom floor of the tenement building. The disposal of garbage was the responsibility of the tenants, which went a long way to explaining the state of the grounds surrounding the tenement buildings. But Dearborn Broaddus had resourcefully arranged for a junkman to pick up this building's garbage in his cart daily; all of the tenants of the building chipped in a penny or two in order to make use of the service. Toler tipped the rat's body into the bin – the bin had seen worse in its day – and then paused a moment to clean the broom and dustpan as best he could in the cold water of the bathtub. The bathroom was the reason he had selected this building as a place to live; outhouses were far more common in the Alleyway district. Addison Broaddus's agent had failed to mention, however, that the bathroom contained no running water, only a tub and washbasin, as well as a toilet that needed to be emptied daily. Here too Dearborn Broaddus had organized the tenants into keeping matters orderly; there was a full pitcher of water in the bathroom, which Toler made use of. After scrubbing clean the tub, he refilled the pitcher from the pump outside, placed the fresh water in the bathroom, then carried the broom and dustpan upstairs.

When he reached the kitchen, he discovered the charwoman mopping the floor.

He stared open-mouthed at her. With an imperative wave of her mop, she gestured him off the wet portion of the floor. He hastily retreated through his bedroom door on the right wall of the kitchen, wondering whether she had cleaned his bedroom first. There were certain items in the bedroom that she must not see.

The desk was still locked, however. It was a simple desk, bulky and distinctly out of fashion: nothing more than a table with a single drawer underneath it. Inside was a pen, a stoppered inkwell, a stack of letters in envelopes addressed to John Jones (a pseudonym he had agreed upon with the party he corresponded with), and a knife for opening envelopes and for other purposes. There were blank sheets and blank envelopes as well, though he had written only three letters so far. His wallet was in his suit pocket – and in any case, it contained no identifying information.

Glancing first at the closed door of the bedroom, pulled out the latest letter from the inner pocket of his vest, tossing it into the drawer. "Mr. John Jones," the unopened envelope read. "Alleyway Post Office. City." At the bottom of the envelope was imprinted the return address, which read simply, "The Eternal Dungeon."

No other address was needed. Yclau's royal dungeon was of international fame – or international infamy, as some commoners would have declared.

As he relocked the drawer, Toler glanced around at his bedroom. It held very little. There was a tall wardrobe with a rung and drawers; leaning against its side was a folding rack for hanging laundry to dry. Tacked to the front of the wardrobe – covering the mirror – was an old print depicting hell, but surely that was not incriminating in itself? Imported Vovimian artwork was fashionable this year, and some of the cheaper prints were within the means of commoners.

Besides that, there was the desk and chair and bed— Toler frowned as he considered the bed. Getting down upon his hands and knees, he looked at what lay there. It was barely visible, under the shadows beneath the bed in his dark bedroom. It was there for a reason; he dared not remove it from his bedroom. But he would have to give it a better hiding place. For now, he would simply lock the bedroom door, so that the charwoman could not stray in here.

Not that he intended to allow her to trespass any further than she already had. Taking another deep breath, Toler left the bedroom, saying, "Mistress Char, it is generous of you to take the time to clean my place, but your services will not be necessary in the fu—"

He stopped. The mop was gone; the floor was clean. The kitchen table, however, was piled with mixing bowls. Mistress Char had her back to him. Lit by the sunlight streaming through the tiny kitchen window – whose curtains she had drawn back, he noted with exasperation – he could see that she was bending over to place a tray of dough in the stove.

This was absurd. A charwoman could not dance into his tenement and make herself at home like this. No woman could.

The char turned around and made another impatient gesture, waving at him. Her accompanying spoken instruction was somewhat garbled, but he gathered that she thought he was in the way while she worked.

He tried again. "Mistress Char—"

The charwoman's gestures grew frantic and furious. Knowing nothing about cooking, Toler wondered whether he was in danger of causing her dough to collapse. Uncertain what to do, he took refuge in pretending that he was merely passing through. Grabbing the books he had laid aside, he retreated to the sitting room.

His tenement – like all the tenements in Luray – consisted of three rooms laid in a row: the small kitchen, flanked on either side by the equally small bedroom and sitting room. Never having entered the tenement on the first floor of the building, Toler could not imagine how Dearborn Broaddus managed to cram himself, his wife, and his seven children into so confined a space.

Toler himself was not bothered at the idea of living in a modest three-room tenement. His last dwelling place had been a prison cell.

Theirs was the first tenement building on the row. As a result, the sitting room had windows that faced both the main street and the narrow alleyway that Addison Broaddus had dignified with the name Broaddus Avenue. Toler had placed the bookcase so that it blocked the main-street window. After due consideration, he had left the alleyway window unblocked, only because it led to the fire escape. He had heard enough tales about the Luray Shirtwaist Company fire – the disastrous Alleyway-district manufactory fire in which dozens of girls had died – to value that fire escape. But at night he would lie sleepless, wondering whether someone was using that fire escape to break into his tenement.

The alley window was still locked from the last time he checked it. After setting the pile of books on the middle shelf of the bookcase, he opened the window to let in the fresh spring air – only relatively fresh, given that the "avenue" was strewn with garbage from tenants who were disinclined or unable to haul their rubbish away. The sounds of Alleyway district life entered with the air: the laughter of children, the slurred singing of a drunken man, angry shouts between a husband and wife, and faintly in the direction of Darktown, the sound of a patrol soldier's whistle.

After grabbing the second book in his stack – he did not need to examine the spine to know which book he was taking – Toler climbed over the windowsill, onto the fire escape. A quick glance around assured him that nobody was watching him. A tree screened the alley from passersby on the main street, while the alley itself was little used, thanks to the trash. It held rubbish cans, broken bottles, discarded cigarettes, and a little shanty that tramps occasionally slept in. There was always the danger that one of the tenants in the row of tenement buildings facing him would look out their window and see him, but Toler had already determined that his neighbors were refreshingly unwilling to gossip about what they saw in their little community.

Prison life had been worse.

He needed a moment to gather together his thoughts. The best manner of collecting himself – he had learned long ago – was through reading the book in his hand.

He ought to have taken a copy of it with him when he left prison. Indeed, it was a wonder to him that he had not; he had practically slept with it under his pillow for thirty-seven years, two-thirds of his lifetime. But his mind had been shattered at the time he was released from his imprisonment; he had been able to think of nothing but fleeing the place that, in his final weeks there, had become painful beyond bearing. He had not even known where he would go next; he had fled to the Alleyway district like a wounded animal seeking a hidden shelter.

Only one man knew that he now lived in the queendom's capital. And that man did not know exactly where he lived.

Well, a few bureaucrats might know his exact location, for they were the ones who fed his bank account. And those bureaucrats might have informed their employer. Feeling uneasy at the thought – was his past forever to chain him? – he settled down upon the cold metal seat of the fire escape and opened the book.

It was not the book he had thought he was holding. Instead, he found himself staring at a detailed description of torture.

He slammed the book shut. It took him a minute to stop shaking. It had been twenty years since he last slaked his lust in this manner.

In the Old Days – he always thought of it that way, as though he had been reborn on that fateful day when he met his love-mate . . . In the Old Days, he had felt no qualms about reading passages that lovingly described the violent trauma undertaken by victims of torture. He needed to know such information, after all. It was part of his profession.

He still remembered – like the shock of a wound ripped anew – the day he had returned to his bedroom and discovered that, in his absence, his love-mate had found and flung to the ground the book about torture that Toler kept under his bed, for idle moments of pleasurable reading. The book had been flung so hard that it had shattered to pieces.

He had never again read a detailed passage about torture. On the rare occasions that he needed to know detailed information for his work, he had asked his love-mate to consult the proper books. His love-mate's clear distaste in recounting the information had kept Toler's own dark desires well tamped down.

But his love-mate was not here. Not here to tamp down the desires, and not here to provide Toler with a legitimate alternative to dreaming about the agony of screaming men and women. What did it matter if he read such books now? Nobody would be harmed. The people in the book were merely figments upon the page.

He opened the book. He looked down. He read the first line he saw: "It was said that, in the Queen's dungeon, no prisoner could hope for mercy . . ."

He rose to his feet and flung the book to the ground.

It fell, with a sharp thud, onto the dirty alleyway pavement. Toler stood looking down at it, breathing heavily. He could still feel his risen desire, unsated.

He heard a knock behind him.

He whirled around. He had a brief glimpse of a startled face in the window near him – he had forgotten that the charwoman could see him from the kitchen, blast it – and then he was busy scrambling over the windowsill, pausing no longer than was needed to hastily lock and shade the window. Whoever the intruder was to Toler's tenement, it was unlikely he was here to offer friendly greetings. Toler must reach the door before the char did.

The knock came again as he entered the kitchen. The char was half-turned to look at the door, but seeing that the master of the household had the matter in hand, she returned to her work of poking the pastries with a toothpick to see whether they were done.

Toler hesitated as he reached the door. The wise thing to do would be to arm himself before opening the door. He had always planned to do this on the long-dreaded day that someone found him.

But ordinary men did not hold knives in their hands when they answered doors, much less hold what Toler kept hidden under the bed. If he armed himself, he could imagine the sort of gossip that the char would spread about him, should the intruder prove to be an innocent passerby . . . or even Dearborn Broaddus, forgetting Toler's polite request not to be disturbed at his "meditations."

Cursing under his breath, Toler unbolted the lock and flung open the door.

At Toler's threshold, cap in hand, stood Yeslin Bainbridge.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Beta reader:_ Janet Ellicott.
> 
> [Publication history](http://duskpeterson.com/cvhep.htm#stalk).
> 
> Copyright © 2021 Dusk Peterson. This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The story is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution License ([creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0)). You may freely share the story, provided that you include this paragraph. If you make changes to the story, please say what changes you have made. You are welcome to transform this story, including creating fanworks; please credit Dusk Peterson ([duskpeterson.com](http://duskpeterson.com) and [archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskpeterson)) for the original story.


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